Blokebusters Page 21

  Chapter seventeen

  Matt made sure that neither he nor Georgia had any Blokebusters commitments on Valentine’s Day. Even with Emily on board, all four Blokebusters staff were rushed off their feet but none were keen to employ anyone else, feeling that outsiders may not be trustworthy. They had however bought another microphone set to meet demand.

  He sat at his computer eating a medium-sized Toblerone. He loved the way the little almond bits went soft and stuck between his teeth. Ploughing through the submitted questionnaires and talking to clients occupied his day comfortably. He’d become efficient through experience and still found time to do household and garden tasks. It was important to him that Georgia unwound when she came home; if there was a pile of ironing she’d do it so he made sure there wasn’t. Several times Larry had chatted to clients whilst ironing Georgia’s work blouses. In Matt’s mind Larry was fast becoming a feminist icon.

  Georgia was at her least favourite audit client. There was nothing wrong with the client but it was a large job and required two managers on site: her and Jeff. It meant spending all day, every day with him for a month. Their audit team realised that she hated Jeff, Jeff fancied her and that they could play them off against each other. The whole team sat in one large rectangular room with no windows and it always smelt musty – like old people had been exercising in it. Even if Jeff wasn’t directly bothering her she could still see and hear him. He’d started winking at her whenever they made eye contact. Everyone in the audit room was chatting about their Valentine’s cards. Georgia had received three. One from Matt over breakfast – a lovely romantic card in which he’d written, ‘To my darling Georgia. I almost left this card blank as words could never express how much I love you’ and one card from Jeff waiting for her at work with a smutty message about the fun they could have together particularly if she’d ‘unleash his love truncheon’. The third card was a mystery. It arrived in the post and she recognised neither the handwriting nor the postmark. It had simply said, ‘Georgia on my mind. And I love it.’ It irked her that she genuinely didn’t have a clue who the sender was.

  Matt had tried to play down his interest in her mystery admirer but she noticed him study the handwriting several times. The card was larger than his and had an expensive handmade look to it – edged in pricked vellum so that it resembled broderie anglaise.

  “I’ll give you your gift when you get home tonight,” he said, laying the mystery card flat on the table rather than how Georgia had left it, standing up.

  “We agreed not to buy gifts.”

  “Couldn’t resist.”

  “Me neither.”

  *

  Georgia got up to assist one of her staff. On their desk, sitting on a pile of stripy continuous paper printouts was a copy of Metro, a free daily London newspaper. Gemma, a second-year trainee accountant, had folded it open where she’d got up to on her commute. The headline couldn’t have stood out to Georgia any more had it been flashing neon. It read: ‘Who is Larry Pink?’

  “Can I read this?” Georgia asked.

  “You can have it if you want – I bought WOT magazine this morning so I’ll read that on the way home,” Gemma said.

  Georgia tried not to reveal how keen she was but snatched the paper. The article described the Blokebusters phenomenon, apparently it was the only topic women all over London were talking about – would they Blokebuster their man? Did they know anyone who had? How did it go? It described the business and quoted from Larry’s only known interview – the one with the Evening Standard. There was a quote from a relationships expert who stated that if you even contemplated using a service like Blokebusters then your relationship was probably already over. There were also anonymous quotes from supposed satisfied customers; one seemed genuine as she referred to the tall, polite man who helped her listen in, the other seemed fake as they claimed that a Scandinavian vixen had tempted her man unfairly with lurid offers of naked massage.

  Still holding the paper, she took her mobile out to a quiet spot in the building and called Fiona.

  “Yeah – it’s hysterical isn’t it?” Fiona squeaked. “Everyone’s talking about it here – some reckon Larry’s a misogynist wreaking revenge on womankind, others think he’s one step off sainthood.”

  “They’ve embellished a bit. As far as I’m aware we don’t employ any Scandinavian vixens,” Georgia sniggered.

  Silence on the other end of the line.

  “Fiona – is there something you want to tell me?”

  “It was just how things were going – what can I say?”

  “You tart!”

  “He was gorgeous – I was tempted to follow up on my offer and do it.”

  Georgia made sure she left work promptly so that she and Matt had a full evening together. The train seemed more crowded than usual because every other woman was buckling under the weight of huge bouquets. Georgia smiled as she pictured the pot of earth waiting for her at home. What would it be this time of year? Probably miniature daffodil bulbs. Therefore, when she entered the living room and saw the huge bouquet of long-stem red roses she gasped. The more analytical side of her couldn’t help counting how many: twenty-four. Twenty-four gorgeous red roses. It was the most romantic thing Matt had ever done.

  “Is there something I should know?” Matt asked, trudging into the room after her.

  “Matt – they’re beautiful. Thank you.” She flung her arms around his neck and was surprised that he didn’t respond. “What’s wrong?”

  “They’re not from me. They arrived this afternoon. Make my miniature daffodils look a bit inferior.” He produced a shallow terracotta bowl filled with earth, the tips of the bulbs just visible above the surface.

  “They’re wonderful,” she said, taking the bowl from him. “The flowers will be dead in a week or so. These will last much longer.” She knew she hadn’t convinced him. Glancing back at the roses she noticed a small envelope attached to the top corner. “Have you read it?”

  “Of course not. I don’t read your post.”

  She opened the envelope and took out a card. It bore the same message as her mystery card: ‘Georgia on my mind. And I love it.’

  “He’s keen then,” Matt said, turning the card over in his hands.

  “I’ll put them in the bin if you want. They’re only flowers – not worth upsetting you over.” She hoped he didn’t make her throw them away. They were exquisite. Someone thought very highly of her.

  “I don’t want you to do that,” he said quietly.

  “I would if you wanted me to.”

  “I don’t.” He scratched his head, unable to take his eyes off the roses.

  In the time it took Georgia to get changed, Matt had controlled his jealousy and watched her arrange the roses in a vase without comment. Tactfully, she decided to put them on the dining room table so that they wouldn’t haunt Matt the whole evening. When she’d placed them on the table he wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her ear and neck.

  “D’you fancy a pizza tonight?”

  “I don’t mind. I’m easy.”

  “Well I know that – but I was asking if you fancied a pizza. What with everyone going out for Valentine’s dinners we’ll probably get it delivered much quicker.”

  “You old romantic you,” she teased and felt his arms drop away.

  “I didn’t think you wanted fancy flowers.”

  “Matt – I was joking. You are romantic – all year round too, not just ‘cos it’s some silly day.”

  “Your face lit up when you saw those flowers.”

  “Because I thought they were from you.”

  “And I got you some crappy bulbs.”

  “Why would you buy me crappy ones?”

  “You know what I mean.” He looked at her with puppy eyes. “Do you really not know who they’re from?”

  “I haven’t got a clue,” she said. “Order the pizza and then you can have your present.”

  She’d bought him a set of gardening books he�
�d been talking about buying for ages but hadn’t. He wasn’t very good at buying himself things, particularly anything unnecessary for fear of appearing self-indulgent.

  “These are terrific – thanks.” He stroked the cover of the book in his hands as if he couldn’t wait to open it and dive in. “Here’s yours.” He passed her a small square package. From a normal gift-buying male it would be a jewellery box containing a watch or a bracelet. Being from Matt it would probably be a screw-together stun gun ideal for using on safari. She opened it and a velvet box plopped out of the wrapping into her hand. Surprised, she glanced at him; he’d never bought her jewellery in the nine years they’d been together. Not even an engagement ring – they couldn’t afford one and then by the time she had her wedding ring it seemed superfluous. He watched her keenly with excited anticipation. Georgia opened the box… and found a key ring sitting inside.

  “Do you like it?” he asked, unable to wait any longer.

  “Ehm, yes. It’s lovely. Thanks.” Her fake smile made her cheeks feel stiff.

  “You’ve got to switch it on,” he said and took it from her. “Here.” He handed it back and she realised the key ring was actually a tiny digital frame. A slide show of photos played on it – all instantly familiar to her. Family events, holidays, their wedding, honeymoon. Even some graduation photos. Their life together. All in a key ring.

  “This must’ve taken ages – putting all these photos together. Some of them aren’t even digital – you must’ve scanned them.” She couldn’t help smiling as a photo appeared of them at a fancy dress party from years back, Matt looking desperately uncomfortable as Abraham Lincoln alongside her Jessica Rabbit.

  “You’re worth it. Every time something happens in our lives, I’ll add to the photos for you.”

  “It’s the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever bought me – and that includes the egg timer you got me.” She hugged him. “I love you so much Matt.”

  “I love you too.” The words had always come easily to him.

  *

  Before going to bed Georgia always prepared her clothes for the next day. Crawling into the back of her wardrobe to find her navy shoes, her hand came into contact with something hard and rough and she let out an involuntary short scream.

  Matt, stripped to his Y-fronts, rushed over to her.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I don’t know – there’s something in there.” She clung to him in fear.

  “What d’you mean ‘something’?” He wasn’t the bravest of men and liked to have an idea of what he was confronting.

  “It’s hard and woody – it felt cold.”

  He smiled as it dawned on him what it was.

  “Oh. Yeah. I meant to tell you about that.” He opened her wardrobe and pulled the clothes to one side so she could see the log.

  “It’s a log. What’s it doing in my wardrobe?” She felt silly for screaming.

  “It’s been impregnated with spore – it will grow shiitake mushrooms.”

  “You’ve put a spore-ridden old log in amongst my clothes?” It wasn’t a question that really required an answer but Matt misinterpreted it.

  “Yep.”

  “Why couldn’t you put it in your own wardrobe?”

  He opened his wardrobe door and moved his clothes to one side.

  “’Cos I’ve got the oyster mushrooms. I couldn’t fit them both in – there’s not mush room in here!” He noted her expression. “OK, I can see you’re not in a mood receptive to comedy. Tell me what to do and I’ll do it.”

  “Remove both logs – now. Put them outside. I don’t want to open the bathroom cabinet or the laundry bin and see them in there. Remove them now and we’ll forget all about it. But if I find the slightest – and by that I mean the tiniest, microscopic speck of spore on any of my clothes – well, let’s just hope for your sake it doesn’t happen.”

  He nodded and grabbed both logs, dashing downstairs with them. She waited until he was out of the bedroom before shaking her head and allowing her face to break into a broad grin.

  *

  “Right – my turn to get the drinks in,” Georgia said, getting up from her desk. It wasn’t her turn but if she stayed opposite Jeff for much longer she might end up in prison. They had all been discussing Frank Sinatra and the general increase in the popularity of lounge music. Jeff was one of those annoying people who, when anyone mentioned an artist or a song, had to sing a huge chunk of it back at you and expect you to sit doe-eyed in wonder at his skill. Georgia grimly pondered which of the items on her desk could kill him the quickest; when she started ruminating whether she should stick her scissors in his neck or his chest she realised she needed to get away. She jotted down everyone’s requests.

  “Your key ring’s flashing,” Gemma said.

  “Oh. I meant to turn it off.” She’d left her keys on the table after unlocking her laptop from the drawer. She tucked the key ring back into her bag. “Valentine’s present from my husband – he’s put photos from our life together onto it.”

  “Awww, that’s cute,” Gemma said.

  She noticed Jeff snort.

  Georgia stood at the vending machine with her makeshift box-lid tray resting on the cup disposal bin, plugging in the numbers for all the various drink requests. She liked to vary things a little. If someone requested a strong black coffee she’d select normal strength black coffee to see if they noticed. If they asked for extra sugar she’d select normal sugar. No one ever commented that their drink didn’t taste how it should. Jeff drank black decaf coffee; she always got him extra strong caffeinated in the hope of giving him an amusing coffee buzz. She hadn’t succeeded so far.

  As she approached their room, walking carefully so as to keep the thin plastic cups upright, she heard Jeff’s voice holding court.

  “Well, of course he can fanny about wasting time putting photos on a stupid key ring. She’s the one out working. I always thought he was dim but I take it back now – he’s got it sussed. Gorgeous wife going out to work and looking after him while he ponces around at home like a housewife.”

  She heard at least two other male voices laughing at his comments and waited outside the room to hear if Jeff had any more to say. She’d always viewed Jeff as a joke – but reasonably harmless. The vindictiveness in his tone shocked her. Matt had never done anything to upset him.

  “I am actually running a sweepstake on when they split – can’t see her sticking him for much longer. How ever much women say they want a sensitive bloke there comes a time when they want a real man – like us, rather than some prat dishing up their dinner and asking them what sort of day they had. If you want a bet let me know – I haven’t got my book on me at the moment – it’s back at the office.”

  Georgia walked into the room pretending she hadn’t heard a thing.

  “Drinks,” she smiled. “Gemma – you were a strong white tea. David – normal cappuccino with sprinkles, Mark – strong cappuccino without sprinkles, Dennis – strong black coffee, Lucy – white tea with normal sugar, me – frothy hot chocolate, and Jeff. Black decaf.” Not one had the drink they’d ordered. She neared Jeff with the cup and he extended his hand to take it from her. It was at that exact moment she pretended to trip and slopped the scorching hot liquid over his groin.

  “Oh, Jeff – I am sorry. It was an accident,” she blustered as he leapt up screeching.

  He ran for the toilets and didn’t reappear for twenty minutes. He returned with a large water mark on his trousers where he’d rinsed the coffee off and sat gingerly.

  “I am sorry,” she said, not actually looking or sounding it. “I’m guessing you didn’t bet on that happening?”

  He glared at her but didn’t speak until they were alone in the room.

  “You’ll regret that, you bitch.”

  SECTION 3: EXODUS

  Chapter eighteen

  Matt poked at the palm seedling in his office. It wasn’t looking in rude health. He feared the worst. Mildew. It was a depressin
g start to what was guaranteed to be a dismal day. Nancy and Alan had invited them to lunch. Matt hated lunch invitations. If you were invited to dinner there was a natural cut-off point where you could leave, usually when people started yawning. Lunch was different; it could stretch out in front of you like a life sentence, the whole afternoon sinking into a chasm of vapid conversation. And Nancy had invited them on Saturday rather than Sunday. At least on Sundays Georgia could use the, ‘I’ve got work the next day’ excuse. Saturday lunchtime disarmed him of every getaway plan he had. He wondered whether Georgia would let him fake a seizure.

  Georgia was in the kitchen reading her newspaper whilst making bacon butties. She knew Matt was always left unsatisfied when Nancy fed him as Nancy gave tiny portions albeit of good quality food. Alan was a picky eater and Nancy assumed he was representative of all men. It was naughty making one for herself but the smell of the bacon had driven her wild; the sweet, salty aroma forced her to obey it and ditch her diet. She was reading about the exploits of a soap star and a singer in the toilets at a showbiz bash. It sounded very sordid and exciting. Georgia looked out of the kitchen window at the grey drizzle and tried to recall the last time her and Matt had done something truly exciting. It was probably three years ago on holiday in the Cayman Islands where they’d made love on the beach at night, as the tide came in. They hadn’t been abroad since. Matt got so cramped on planes she worried for his health. The bacon spat grease spots onto the worktop and she flipped it over in the pan before returning to her paper. She turned the page and froze.

  “Something smells good,” Matt said as he entered the kitchen. “Georgia? What’s up?”

  “Look!”

  He followed her finger.

  “Christ almighty!”

  The page was dominated by a bold headline:

  ‘DO YOU KNOW LARRY ‘BLOKEBUSTERS’ PINK?’

  Matt tried to keep calm and glanced at Georgia. She looked at him with panic and excitement competing for dominance on her face.